Page 122 of Bellini Bound

But instead of it being a doctor like I’d expected, two uniformed police officers were standing opposite me.

My anger spiked. “The fuck do you want?”

Officer Number One took the lead. “We need you to come down to the station for questioning.”

“Questioning,” I repeated, huffing, “Now’s not a good time.”

“It wasn’t a request,” Officer Number Two said with an air of authority.

Folding my bloodied arms over my chest, I declared, “I’m not leaving my wife. She’s been shot and is currently in surgery.”

Both of their eyes went wide. Officer Number One sputtered, “You expect us to believe the victim, Allie Logan, is your wife?”

I lifted my left hand, showing off the wedding band that rested on the fourth finger, and corrected, “It’s Allie Bellini. Has been for nearly a year.”

“Got any proof of that?” Officer Number Two asked, skepticism coloring his question.

“Funny thing about marriages. They’re public record, so you have access to my ‘proof’ on those shitty computers back at the station. Why don’t you buzz off there to check for yourselves? Or better yet, go ask your boss.” I turned my back on them in a clear dismissal.

“Commissioner Logan has been . . . unreachable.”

I almost snorted. That was one way to put it.

When I spun around to face them once more, my voice rose in volume as I demanded, “Then why the hell are you here bothering me when you should be tracking down Logan to inform him that his daughter is fighting for her life after a home invasion?”

In my current mental state, there was no satisfaction to be found in finally rendering these idiot cops speechless.

They began to shuffle out of the room, but Officer Number Two said over his shoulder, “No promises we won’t be back.”

I merely rolled my eyes. Their bullshit investigation was the least of my concerns right now.

“Coffee.” Matteo pressed a paper cup into my hand, and I grunted my gratitude.

My cousin had arrived shortly after the cops left, sitting beside me for hours in silent support. He’d been in my shoes—more than once—waiting to hear the fate of a loved one and understood that I wasn’t in the mood for chit chat or to hear platitudes of optimism.

The bitter liquid scorched a path down my throat, but I barely felt it, numb from head to toe, as I awaited word of my wife’s condition. The longer we went without an update from medical personnel, the tighter dread coiled inside me.

This was not one of those cases where no news was good news. The longer my wife was under the knife, the more likely it was that she wouldn’t make it out on the other side, because an extended surgery meant there had been complications.

It was beginning to sink in that the unimaginable might become my reality.

“Mr. Bellini?”

My head snapped up, and this time, there was a scrubs-clad doctor at the entrance to the tiny room.

I shoved to my feet on shaky legs, my heart racing a million miles per hour. “That’s me.” Swallowing past the lump lodged in my throat, I dared to ask, “Is Allie . . .?”

He nodded, and my knees buckled. Thankfully, Matteo had stepped up beside me, his firm grip on my elbow the only thing keeping me from crashing to the floor.

“Wh-when can I see her?”

“Right now, she’s in recovery. Once we’re certain she’s stable, she’ll be moved to the ICU. It could be a few hours yet.” The doctor’s lips pressedinto a thin line. “Mr. Bellini, the damage to your wife’s internal organs from the bullet fragments was . . . extensive.”

I pulled in a deep breath, bracing for what he had to tell me. “Extensive how?”

“As you know, the entry point was her lower back. The bullet tore through her left kidney, requiring its removal, but the good news is that only one is needed to live a completely functional life. There were also several sections of her small intestines that were damaged and needed to be removed. We’ll monitor her bowel function to determine if additional surgery is required to place a permanent ostomy bag.”

Okay, not ideal, but so far, nothing we couldn’t work around.